The Housewife Assassin's Fourth Estate Sale Page 13

  She walks him onto the set, where the other hosts, Lolita Jamison and Beverly Manville, have taken up separate corners of the set’s sizable serpentine couch.

  Beverly, the older of the two, has been with the network for almost thirty years. Other than her attire and hairstyles, her looks don’t seem to have changed that much. It may have something to do with the amount of makeup troweled onto her face.

  I recognize Lolita as a former Miss Wyoming in some recent pageant. She is stunning: a natural auburn beauty. If only she’d keep her mouth shut! Metaphorically speaking, she makes a habit of sticking her five-inch Manolo in it. If she isn’t spouting some backhanded compliment to a guest of the show, she’s espousing her air-headed take on a current event. Twitter lights up with her Lolita-isms on an almost daily basis. I guess it’s one of the reasons the producers keep her on.

  The women’s make-up and hair stylists flutter about them, but they ignore each other, choosing to click away on their cell phones instead. “Oh, my GAWD,” Lolita squeals. “I’ve surpassed Taylor Swift in Twitter followers!”

  Beverly doesn’t look up, but her collagen-filled lips drop into a pout. “Knock off the fake squeal, Lo. Everyone knows you use a Twitter farm.”

  Lolita’s hair stylist gasps.

  Her client’s lip quivers at the insult. “Why, you old hag! You’re just jealous because your core-demo audience hasn’t figured out how to use Twitter—”

  Hastily, Suzanne bellows, “Yoo-hoo, ladies! Look who I have with me! It’s your new co-host!”

  The women’s bickering pauses as they turn to face their producer and scrutinize Jack. They must like what they see because suddenly they’re all smiles.

  Beverly gets to Jack first, but only because she shoved away her makeup person to do so. “You’re our new man candy, eh?” she purrs. “Welcome to our humble little show.”

  “You have nothing to be humble about.” He leans in, searing her with his now baby-blues. “Your ratings are twice that of the closest morning show. Beverly, I’m sure a lot of that has to do with the way you seduce the audience.” He takes her hand as he looks soulfully into her eyes.

  She practically preens at the comment. “Ah yes, well, intimacy is something I excel at.” She winks broadly.

  “Yeah, when it comes to intimacy, our Bevvy has had many, many years of practice,” Lolita butts in. “You could say that a lot of our audience has grown up with Bev! Some of them have even grown old with her.”

  Before Beverly can slap Lolita’s simpering smile, Suzanne swats away her hand. “Watch the nails, darling! Mustn’t smudge the manicure!”

  How many of these catfights must she break up on any given morning? No wonder a little vein pops on her forehead.

  “Sadly, my gorgeous morning team, we don’t have time for a stagger through of the show before our guest arrives. So, go ahead and take your places on the couch. Grant, you’re in the middle,” Suzanne says.

  “New meat for our manwich,” Beverly drawls. “Yummy!”

  Jack strides to the couch with the women on his heels.

  Lolita sits on his right. Okay, make that practically in Jack’s lap. Not to be outdone, Beverly lays a hand on his wrist, then leans in. Her breasts bulge through the V of her low-cut blouse.

  When one of the production assistants attempts to attach Jack’s lapel mic, Lolita snatches it out of the guy’s hand. “Here, let me do that.” She grins.

  Hmm. I’ve been around enough mics to know that pinching Jack's nipple between her fingers is no way to test the sound level.

  Suzanne gives the production assistants a wave, indicating that they are free to let today’s studio audience take their seats. After they’ve settled in, she mouths into the talent and crew members’ earpieces: “Okay, cue music…and...”

  Suzanne points to Lolita.

  Lolita squeals brightly, “Good morning, Hartland!”

  “Yes, good morning Hartland.” Beverly’s tone oozes sensuality. “We’re here every morning to make your morning!” She winks at the camera. “With that in mind, let me introduce you to a man who, like me, you’ll enjoy waking up with every morning: Grant Larkin.”

  The camera moves in on Jack, who rewards it with a broad grin. “It’s great to be sharing the couch with you, Beverly.”

  Lolita giggles. “Imagine if it were a bed instead.”

  Not phased by her coquettishness, Jack chuckles. “Interesting proposition. But fair warning: I’d easily take both of you in a pillow fight.”

  “Promises, promises,” Beverly says. “Hey, maybe today’s very special guest would like to join us in that!” Reluctantly, she pulls herself away from him in order to face the camera. “First Lady Babette Chiffray is here to discuss Peace Meal, her new initiative to encourage Americans to share a dinner with a stranger.”

  Yikes! Babette is there?

  Will seeing Jack a second time jog her memory as to who he truly is? Considering all the times she’s attempted to pick him up, I would think so.

  Jack must be thinking the same thing because just for a second his smile falters.

  “We’ve just met Grant this morning,” Lolita points out. “Does he count as a stranger?” She licks her lips as she makes eye contact with him. “I’m free for dinner, by the way.”

  Despite Lolita’s silly remark, the strength of Beverly’s latest Botox injection holds on her forehead. However, the edges of her mouth push it into a grimace. “Now, now, Lolita! No need to appear so desperate! He’ll find out soon enough why you suffer through so many lonely nights.”

  Lolita’s cheeks pink up. Hotly, she retorts, “I do not! Why, I have a boyfriend!”

  Beverly rolls her eyes. “Then why hasn’t anyone met him?”

  “He sure is a lucky guy,” Jack says to the camera through gritted teeth. “After this commercial break, we’ll welcome the First Lady of the United States: Babette Chiffray. So, stay tuned.”

  “Cut!” Suzanne shouts. She walks over to the couch. “Look, ladies, it’s the new guy’s first day. What do you say we cut him some slack? You know, forego the catfights for a week or so. No?”

  She loses their attention to the beehive of activity now surrounding her on-air talent as their glam squads descend in full force.

  Suzanne sighs mightily as she walks over to Jack. Shaking her head, she declares, “Well, I tried.”

  “Just out of curiosity, what happened to the last guy who had this gig?” Jack asks.

  “He retired to a farm in the country.”

  Jack squints. “Really? You’re using that old canard?”

  Suzanne snickers. “You know, my kids never bought that line about our Airedale either!” She hands him one of the infamous blue cards.

  “This isn’t on the monitor crawl, but I promised the First Lady you’d say this, which brings up an important point. The one thing you can never screw up, New Guy, is anything written on a blue card.” She taps her finger on a phrase with a star beside it. “In this case, after the First Lady lays down some patter on her cause, you’ll respond by saying, ‘We should all make a new friend now then. It should be a worldwide effort! So, folks, write down the number at the bottom of the screen. Then call to see how you can get involved.’”

  “Got it,” Jack assures her.

  If Jack reads it, he’ll be signaling a covert op command.

  Unfortunately, since this footage is from several hours ago, it’s already too late for me to stop him.

  Instead, I pace the room.

  Where in the hell is he now?

  I send Jack a text. While I wait for him to respond, I watch the rest of the show.

  After the commercial break, the camera sweeps through the cheering waving audience before settling on Beverly, who proclaims, “Our guest today is a fashion icon, an inspiration to women all over the world—and lately, the calm eye of the gathering storm around the White House.”

  Lolita’s sad nod is a subliminal message to the viewing audience: We should be worried about our
president.

  Okay, yeah, fashion icon I’ll give Babette. But “worldwide inspiration” and “calm eye in the storm?” Hardly!

  Hell, she has been the storm since the first day she and her first husband, Jonah Breck, stepped into Hilldale. I live to get enough evidence to prove that she inherited his seat in the Quorum.

  “She is now the country’s Humanitarian-in-Chief, too,” Beverly continues. “Without further ado, let’s welcome my idol and I’m sure yours, too! Babette Chiffray!”

  Oh, gag me. Babette’s entry is made to a jazzy riff that puts a burlesque spin on Hail to the Chief.

  In hindsight, maybe it is appropriate.

  She waves at the studio audience. Then, making eye contact with the camera, she blows a kiss.

  Who was that for, I wonder.

  Babette then shakes hands with Beverly and air-kisses Lolita, who is thrilled at the gesture and squeals with glee. When Babette turns to ‘Grant,’ her eyes drink him in before she holds out her hand to him.

  Jack takes it, only to find himself being pulled in for a kiss.

  Oh hell. Babette must recognize him.

  When, finally, she pulls away, she pretends to fan herself. “Wow! Maybe this is how I should spend every morning! You lucky ladies!”

  Beverly preens at the compliment. Lolita practically faints.

  To Jack’s credit, at most he looks bemused. He points to the couch and says calmly, “After you, First Lady.”

  “Please, call me Babette,” she purrs as she pulls him down with her.

  As the morning’s grand inquisitor, Beverly takes her place on the other side of Babette. She’s a smart cookie: one of the three studio cameras will keep them in a two-shot, whereas a second camera draws back to take in everyone on the couch. The third camera is also a two-shot: of Babette and Jack.

  She is still holding his hand.

  The nerve of her!

  Beverly gushes even more compliments before segueing to the topic of Babette’s charity. “How did you come up with the idea?”

  Babette’s smile fades. “As First Lady, I eat alone on many nights. You know, my husband is very busy with…well, with affairs...”

  She pauses so long that Beverly’s eyes open wide. Instinctively the host leans closer to her guest—

  “…of state,” Babette says as she wipes away a crocodile tear.

  Dissing Lee on national television about an imaginary affair? That takes some nerve, considering her own lineup of lovers—including the father of her toddler son.

  “I hear ya, sister!” Lolita’s strangled gasp has Camera Three swinging her way for a close-up. Realizing this, Lolita puts her hands on her cheeks, like a silent screen actress in distress.

  Oh, brother…

  Camera Two, the wide shot, catches Babette patting Jack’s hand as if she hopes to find her solace there.

  With his next statement, he sorely disappoints: “I’m sure, Babette, your country appreciates the sacrifices you’ve made for it. Consider the strain on the president too! Every moment away from you must break his heart.”

  Babette’s woe-is-me gaze turns to daggers as she stares up at ‘Grant.’ Apparently, I’m not the only one who hears the irony in Jack’s voice.

  To prod Babette back to her mission, Beverly says, “So, tell us how this cause works. Is it like the dating site ‘It’s Just Lunch,’ where you’re set up on a blind date, only he may not be much of a looker?”

  Babette sniffs. “In the first place, it may not be a ‘he.’ Secondly, there is no matchmaking because your dinner companion is randomly assigned.”

  “Oh…” Lolita seems disappointed. “You mean you can’t swipe left if the person leaves you cold?”

  “You haven’t met yet,” Babette counters. “You know nothing about this person! You are meeting because you’re lonely.”

  Lolita snickers. “I’m not that lonely!”

  Beverly leans in toward Babette and ‘Grant.’ “Ha! Give her a decade. That over-inflated silicon job won’t stay perky forever.”

  Suzanne hisses in Jack’s earpiece: “Only twenty seconds until the commercial break and FLOTUS flies the coop! Go to the cheat sheet banter!”

  Oh, hell, here it comes…

  Jack nods slightly. “Mrs. Chiffray, how many Peace Meals have you gone on thus far? Five? Ten? More?”

  Babette sits there, stunned. Finally, she stutters, “Why, er…none. I mean, not yet.”

  “None?” Grant frowns. “Oh…well…Hmm.” He shrugs. “Still, you’ve done your country a great service by at least heading up such a wonderful cause. In fact, I’m willing to give it a go!” He turns to Beverly. “What do you say, Beverly? Will you do it too?”

  Clearly appalled, she frowns. Finally, she croaks, “Yeah, okay, what the heck.”

  Jack’s head turns to Lolita. “How about you, Lolita? Think about the joy you’ll get from impressing someone who’s never met you!”

  Lolita brightens at the thought. “Okay…sure, Grant!…Wait! Does this mean you’re asking me out on a date?”

  The cause’s telephone number is now flashing below them on the screen. As the break music rises, Suzanne shouts, “Cut!”

  The cameras on the set go dark. Babette’s mood does too. Leaping up from the couch, she jabs her finger at Jack. “How dare you put me on the spot like that!”

  Jack feigns surprise. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Chiffray! It was supposed to be a softball question. I’d thought you’d hit it out of the park.”

  She growls, “Suzanne, what the hell? He was supposed to plug my charity, not make me look like a fool!”

  “Frankly, Mrs. Chiffray, I think we did you a service by sprinkling it with a little star power.” Jack points to Beverly and Lolita.

  Incensed, Babette stalks off the stage. Immediately, she is enveloped by her usual posse—Narcissa Belmont and Chantal Desmarais—who hustle her out of the studio.

  Exasperated, Suzanne whips around to Jack. “Why the hell didn’t you follow the cheat sheet?”

  He lays his hand on her shoulder. “You’re a great producer. You know as well as me that we did her a favor.”

  Suzanne’s anger wavers under Jack’s piercing gaze.

  Clueless about the tension around her, Lolita leans into Jack. “So, were you serious about that date?”

  Emma’s footage goes dark.

  Four o’clock rolls around, and still no Jack. Grrrr. So, I text him:

  * * *

  DONNA: Packed for the both of us. Wheels up at 1940, but if you hurry, we can catch an earlier flight. Where the hell are you?

  JACK: Sorry! Cohosts kidnapped me to an early happy hour. It’s their "initiation ritual”—drinks at the Marriott Times Square View Lounge.

  DONNA: Well, la-dee-dah. Let me guess what’s on the menu: A MANWICH. And what’s for dessert?

  JACK: Probably airline peanuts. I promise I'll be out of here by 1800. Scout’s honor. xoxo

  I refuse to sit around and twiddle my thumbs. My next text is to Arnie:

  * * *

  DONNA: Buy U a drink?

  ARNIE: I thought you’d never ask! Reunion Sur Bar? Fish tacos! Slurpee tropical drinks! Meet me there, like 1700? I’m catching a flight home for the weekend. Gotta be at the airport by 1940.

  DONNA: OMG! You’re on our flight! Okay, see you there.

  * * *

  The place is packed, but Arnie has secured two seats at the bar.

  He’s sipping on something called a Coco-Loco, but I wave down the bartender for the specialty drink known as the Mermaid (a frozen mojito) and a couple of fish tacos.

  By the time Arnie is halfway through his platter of three beef short rib tacos and a side of “Tot-Chos” (tater tots smothered in nacho toppings), it dawns on me that Acme may know more about the Special Counsel’s investigation of Lee’s trust than it realizes.

  Nonchalantly, I ask, “Hey Arnie, when you scanned Wagner Klein’s database, did you come across any of Lee Chiffray’s companies?”

  Arnie
stops slurping on his drink straw and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t know. I mean, doesn’t he own, like, a million of them?”

  “You’re right. There are a lot of them. Hey, can you do me a favor and run a cross-reference?”

  Arnie furrows his brow as he drags yet another tater tot into the small lake of guacamole, chili, and jack cheese that takes up a good bit of real estate on his platter. “Can you give me a specific company name?”

  “That’s the problem. The Special Counsel may not have subpoenaed the one in question, so it isn’t public record as of yet. But because Global World Industries is registered with the SEC, you grab its public filing or stock report and cross-reference all of its companies with the Wagner Klein database.”

  Arnie nods. “Sure, no problem. Here’s hoping I find it quickly! Emma needs me home. She isn’t doing so well at single parenting.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I hear you. It’s a hard task to be on call, twenty-four-seven.”

  Arnie guffaws. “In Emma’s case, it’s the opposite! Nicky is enjoying preschool so much that he whines when she arrives to take him home! She’s beginning the think she’s the worst mother in the world!” His face softens. “God…I love that woman.”

  I pat his hand. “She’s one lucky lady.”

  Arnie blushes. “And Jack is one lucky guy.” He frowns. “Where is he, anyway?”

  “Getting ‘initiated’ by his cohosts, Beverly and Lolita—whatever that means.”

  Arnie’s eyes open wide, but he says nothing.

  Oh no.

  Calmly, I ask, “You know something, don’t you?”

  Arnie shakes his head firmly.

  With my left hand, I slap his palm flat on the table. Naturally, his fingers are spread out. With my right one, I take my steak knife in my fist and stab it between his index and middle finger. “Your call. Should I try this blindfolded?”

  “No! Of course not!”